


Crème de la Crème

by ilookedback



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Oral Sex, and also, brief mention of something mildly kinky at the end, just very soft and sappy and loving and domestic, no use of 'y/n', not really hurt/comfort but definitely caretaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25682962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: He can’t hide the weariness behind his words when he confesses, hesitantly, that it’s been a long week and he’s not sure he has the energy to keep your reservation this evening. He’s starting to tell you he has the whole weekend free and maybe you can switch your date to brunch tomorrow, but you cut him off as nicely as you can. “Babe. We don’t have to go out. Why don’t you come over to my place and sit on my couch and let me feed you?”It’s a good couch, deep and plush, and Marcus has fallen asleep on it more than once in the short time you’ve been dating. The restaurant you’d been planning to visit tonight has great food but is furnished with awkward, stiff chairs, and frankly this might have been the better plan all along.“Oh,” he says. He sounds almost surprised but it turns into a pleased sound of assent. “Yeah, that sounds… pretty perfect. Thanks.”And then a minute after you hang up the phone, he texts you,I’m bringing dinner though, and you write back,Dessert is on me, and he says,I hope so, and sends a winking face emoji and you think,I love you.
Relationships: Marcus Pike/Original Female Character(s), Marcus Pike/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 37





	Crème de la Crème

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to everybody who would move to DC with Marcus Pike after knowing him for two weeks. Unbetaed. Inspired in part by pedropascalito on Tumblr, who suggested _quiet moments at home alone with Marcus_ , when I asked for prompts recently.

Marcus is a little old-fashioned and still likes to use his phone to actually talk to people instead of just texting them, so you aren’t surprised when your screen lights up with his name showing an incoming call a few minutes after you’ve sent him a message asking how his day is going. You’re happy to hear his voice regardless, but it also means he can’t hide the weariness behind his words when he confesses, hesitantly, that it’s been a long week and he’s not sure he has the energy to keep your reservation this evening. He says it like he’s only concerned for you, that he’s sorry he won’t be able to treat you to the evening you deserve, and privately on your side of the phone call you shake your head. A little exasperated and a little in love.

He’s starting to tell you he has the whole weekend free and maybe you can switch your date to brunch tomorrow, but you cut him off as nicely as you can. “Babe. We don’t have to go out. Why don’t you come over to my place and sit on my couch and let me feed you?”

It’s a good couch, deep and plush, and Marcus has fallen asleep on it more than once in the short time you’ve been dating. The restaurant you’d been planning to visit tonight has great food but is furnished with awkward, stiff chairs, and frankly this might have been the better plan all along.

“Oh,” he says. He sounds almost surprised but it turns into a pleased sound of assent. “Yeah, that sounds… pretty perfect. Thanks.”

And then a minute after you hang up the phone, he texts you, _I’m bringing dinner though_ , and you write back, _Dessert is on me_ , and he says, _I hope so_ , and sends a winking face emoji and you think, _I love you_.

~*~

When he shows up at your door he looks tired but his face brightens happily when he sees you and he gives you a sweet kiss before he even sets foot inside. It’s a hands-free kiss, because he’s holding a small bouquet of sunflowers in one hand and carrying a takeout bag in the other, but he seems in no hurry to set them down or come inside.

You tug at his arm, pulling him into the apartment, and he resists playfully for a moment. “What, you don’t want to make out in the doorway all night? I thought that’s why you invited me over.”

You give him a laugh and admire the way his tired eyes crinkle in amusement. Then you accept the flowers and the food and head over to the kitchen while he stops to slip off his shoes and jacket.

“You want beer or wine?” you call back to him.

“Beer, please.”

You crack open a bottle of IPA from the fridge and pour a couple inches into a glass for yourself. “I’m stealing some,” you tell him shamelessly, handing him the bottle as he steps into the kitchen behind you. “I only wanted a little bit.”

He shakes his head, but he still looks content as he accepts the drink. “I’ll take whatever you give me, you know that.”

The words sound light but you know there’s something heavy behind them, something vulnerable it’s nowhere in his nature to keep hidden.

“Alright,” you say, and you reach your hand to curl around the back of his neck, digging your fingers into his thick, neatly trimmed hair for a gentle massage, liking how his eyes fall closed in response. “I’ll try to only give you good things, then.”

And he smiles, like you’ve said exactly the right thing, and he opens his eyes sleepily to look at you and you think, _I love you_.

~*~

He’s brought Thai food, two entrees to split between you, and you send him into the living room tasked with picking some music to put on your sound system while you plate the food and gather forks and napkins and put the pretty flowers he’s brought you into water. When you get back to him he’s picked something mellow and soulful and has made himself comfortable on the couch, feet tucked under him and beer in hand.

He sighs gratefully when you hand him a plate and settle in next to him, and he takes his first bite so eagerly that you raise an eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. “Did you eat lunch today?”

“I had…” He has to stop and think about it, which is not a good sign. “A granola bar, I guess?” he says finally, making a face. “I was busy all day, I never really had a chance to take a break.”

“Poor babe.” You squeeze his shoulder and let him get back to his curry, mentally resolving to put together a care package of protein-rich snacks for his desk drawer. You know you will never see him give less to his job, but you can try and ensure he’s giving more care to himself along the way.

“Tell me about your day,” he prompts, and in between bites you share the anecdotes you’ve saved up for him, gratified when he laughs at the funny bits and groans sympathetically over your one asshole coworker who’d presented one of your ideas as his own in a meeting earlier.

“Hey,” he says, mock serious. “If you want me to plant some stolen art in his house and bust him, just say the word.”

“Absolutely,” you say. “Please do that for me.”

“Yeah? Is he more of a Picasso guy or Manet, you think?”

“Munch,” you tell him, and clap your hands to your face in a silly imitation of _The Scream_. He laughs so hard you have to take his plate away before he drops it, and you grin watching him try to collect himself and you think, _I love you_.

~*~

When your plates are empty and the conversation has lulled, he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you against his side, resting his head on your shoulder.

“You ready for dessert?” you ask, trailing your thumb across the raspy edge of his jaw where he has the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow starting to grow.

“Mmm,” he hums, and tightens his grip around your waist, turning in to you so he can tuck his face against your neck and press his lips to your skin. “Is this dessert?” he murmurs.

Your eyes fall shut and you tilt your head to give him room, enjoying the hot press of his mouth before you think to answer his question. “I actually do have real dessert for us.”

He pulls away again eventually, with a hint of reluctance, and lets you stand up, trailing behind you to the kitchen with your dinner plates stacked to set in the sink. He gives them a rinse and washes his hands and you get a little distracted watching him carefully dry them on a dish towel. You’ve always liked his hands. They’re strong and capable but there’s a gracefulness about them—artist’s fingers that can wield a paintbrush or a guitar pick as well as they can hold a gun.

“So what are we having?” he asks. You start to open your mouth to answer, but inspiration strikes and you shake your head. “It’s a surprise,” you tell him instead. “In fact, why don’t you go back in there and close your eyes and wait for me.”

“Hmm,” he says skeptically, but he’s already turning to go. “If I fall asleep before you come back, it’s on you.”

You fetch the dessert out of the fridge and grab a couple of small spoons. You’d prepared a simple chocolate pot de creme topped with fresh raspberries and it’s ready to go just as it is. But there’s one more element to your surprise for him; you work quietly to slip off your clothes before walking back into the living room with the dessert in hand, clad only in your lacy lingerie.

He’s sitting crosswise on the couch, with his back against the armrest, eyes dutifully closed and a tranquil expression on his face. You get close enough to nudge the back of his hand with your knee and he blinks his eyes open, then does a subtle double-take when he sees you.

“God,” he laughs breathlessly. His eyes rake over you and he bites his lip, letting it slide between his teeth shiny and bitten-red. He lifts his hand and lands it on your upper thigh, rubbing his thumb along the lace edge of your underwear, then exerts a hint of pressure to tug you closer. “C’mere,” he murmurs, and guides you to settle between his legs on the couch. You curl up into the space he makes for you, leaning your shoulder against the edge of his chest, feeling his body heat through his clothes against your bare skin, and you hold up the ramekin with its two spoons.

He shakes his head a little as he grabs one of the spoons. “I can’t believe you expect me to do anything other than touch you right now.” But finally he turns his attention to the custard. “You made this? It looks fancy.”

“Anything looks fancy when you garnish it with berries.”

When he takes the first bite his response is almost orgasmic, the way he closes his eyes and drops his head onto the couch cushion, helplessly. You laugh, pleased at his reaction. “You like it?”

He doesn’t answer with words, just presses a kiss to your shoulder as he spoons up another bite and lets his eyes flutter closed again as it melts on his tongue.

The dish isn’t quite empty when he finally loses patience and sets it aside and turns you so he can kiss you properly, letting you taste the remnants of rich dark chocolate in his mouth. You run your hand down his chest, let it fall between his legs and feel at the bulge of his hardening cock. He groans, shifting under you, hips lifting up to press into your hand, and you pull back just far enough to tell him, “Let me take care of you,” and start to unbutton his shirt.

You get his shirt open and bare his chest for your lips, dragging your mouth over his skin and listening to his breath catch as your hands work at his belt. Finally you unzip his trousers and shift back on the couch so you can bend your head lower, circling your tongue around the head of his cock before closing your mouth around the hot weight of him. You feel so eager for it, like this was what you wanted all along today, just to taste him and know that you are making him feel good. To get on your knees for him.

You suck harder, get him wet so you can wrap your fingers around his length and stroke his cock where your mouth doesn’t reach. It makes him groan and go boneless and when you look up to meet his eyes they are going glazed and half-lidded, blown out like he’s getting high off of you.

“Oh god, honey, baby, your mouth feels _so_ —fucking good,” he rasps, and you glow at the satisfaction of making him swear, relishing the breathless praise spilling out of him.

You can feel it when he’s close to coming because his fingers scrabble and tug a little tight in your hair, his hips rock up just a bit, helpless not to thrust into the heat of your mouth, and you swallow him down when he pulses and comes in your mouth, lick him gently clean and rest your head on his hip bone, smiling fondly up at him while he catches his breath, one arm slung over his eyes. And you think, _I love you_.

~*~

When he’s gotten his breath back he pulls you up and shifts himself down further on the couch, gives you a deep kiss, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to find a trace of himself there. And then, unexpectedly, he tugs you further up, murmurs, “It’s your turn,” and gets you situated to hover over his face, gets your cunt set over his mouth and pushes your panties aside so he can eat you out. His mouth starts slow and lazy but his fingers when he slips them inside you are steady and thrust in deep and fast, giving you something strong to clench around when he makes you come. You have to clutch at the arm of the couch, shift your hips down his chest so you don’t rest all your weight on his face when you collapse, and he chuckles quietly and pets his hands mindlessly over your hips, looking sated and sleepy.

You have to convince him not to fall asleep right there on the couch. Begrudgingly, he agrees and goes to take a quick shower before climbing naked into bed. You take the time to clean up a little in the kitchen, get yourself ready for bed, and he’s nearly asleep when you go to join him, but he shifts so he can pull your back to his chest, spooning around you.

“Thank you for dinner,” you tell him.

He hums and shifts his head behind you. “Thank you for hosting it. Best restaurant I’ve ever been to. I’m giving you five stars on Yelp.”

You reach back and lightly pinch his thigh, a gentle admonishment for being cheeky, and he chuckles and grabs your hand, tangling your fingers with his.

“I like being in your bed,” he murmurs.

You grin to yourself in the dark, overcome with affection, and wait a beat to try and make your words sound less giddy than you feel when you respond.

“I like having you in my bed. One of these days I might just tie you up so you can’t leave it.”

It’s only because his mouth is so close to your ear that you can hear his breath catch, but then his hand tightens around yours and he presses his body a little closer to you.

“Yeah, we can… do that, one of these days, if you want.”

It’s such a funny, unexpected delight, to discover accidentally from your offhand, joking comment that he might be interested in being tied up, and this absolutely is not the right moment, not when he’s half asleep and it’s too dark to see his face, but you are so full of joy over him that you simply cannot, cannot wait any longer. You turn in his arms, try to kiss him and land your lips on his chin, making him laugh, and you say, “I really love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's](https://cookeatpaleo.com/easy-dark-chocolate-pots-de-creme/) the pot de creme recipe. :-)


End file.
